


Filthy Hands

by jardinsdeminuit



Category: Ozmafia!! (Visual Novel)
Genre: Action, Angst, Gen, Kyrie's POV, POV First Person, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jardinsdeminuit/pseuds/jardinsdeminuit
Summary: As the end approaches, Kyrie decides to take matters into his own hands.
Kudos: 3





	Filthy Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I finished Ozmafia a couple of days ago and wow, what an underrated masterpiece. Of course, the Epilogue/Grand Ending left me with a lot of emotions. This fic is inspired by one of the most heart-wrenching moments from the Epilogue. It's a little different to the kind of stories I usually write, so I hope it reads well.
> 
> Warning: MAJOR SPOILERS up ahead. If you haven't finished Ozmafia yet or don't want part of the ending spoiled, please don't go ahead!

We've been here before, you and I.

How long has it been since that day? How many years since we last stood on this hill overlooking the town we both know and love? You lying face-down in your bright red cloak, peering down the barrel of your rifle, while I hover behind, one leg balanced against a rock to brace me against the wind. I always joked that your cloak was far too conspicuous for a sniper. Turns out I was right, as it's led me to find you now.

There's blood on your hand. It stains the fingers that you press against your stomach, a result of the dagger I've just stabbed into your back. No, the symbolism isn't lost on me. Few things are. But this isn't a betrayal, is it? We were never truly on the same side, even if it necessity forced us together more than once.

You have the audacity to look surprised as you turn your head and glance up. Like you didn't know I would be coming for you. Perhaps you were expecting a little more time, just a few more seconds to line up your shot and pull the trigger. Or maybe you didn't think it would be me.

As if I would push this task onto anyone else. After all, my hands are already filthy. What more is a little mud?

You groan as you roll onto your back. I bend down on one knee and pluck the rifle from your hands. Flecks of blood are spattered across the handguard. Usually, I'd take the time to wipe them off with a handkerchief, but time is something I don't have today, so I simply pull off my glove before levelling the rifle. The wood feels cold beneath my bare fingers.

I know I shouldn't look down. But I can't help it. Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight before you. And yet you don't try and stop me. Even though you're bleeding out, you still have enough life in you to reach out and grab my elbow, to try and wrench the rifle from my hands. To prove to the world that you died fighting.

But you've never been a fan of conflict, have you? I can see it in your eyes. You may be frozen in time, trapped in the body of a child, but your eyes are those of an old soul. You know as well as I do that heroism is a pointless concept, that even if you somehow managed to get a hold of the rifle, there's no way I would let you win.

And so you lie there, watching me silently.

It was windy that day. So windy, in fact, that I had to hold my hat down to keep it from blowing away. I remember it clearly. Isn't that strange, how it's always the little details that take up the most space in our memories? I told you to hurry up and pull the trigger as Hamelin approached the tower. It should have been a clean shot, _would_ have been if not for the shaking of your hands.

Many people believe that life hinges on a single moment. They're wrong. Life is a chessboard and every second counts. If you're foolish enough not to plan your movements, then you might as well lit back and wait to be captured.

I hold my breath as I stare down the scope. It's easy to pick out the twin figures duelling at the base of the tower. Both are so wrapped up in their scuffle, they wouldn't think to pay a glance at the distant hill. A flash of pink darts over the crosshairs. I narrow my eye. Breathe out. Squeeze the trigger.

The bullet enters Pashet's head just above the temple. A clean shot. There's a half-second delay between the bullet piercing her skull and her body registering what's happened. She raises her sword one last time. Then she crumples to the ground, wide-eyed, unmoving.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, nausea clamps around my insides. I've always had a strong stomach for violence. It doesn't bother me. Yet I have to force myself to watch. Even though I'm at a distance, I feel like I can smell the blood pooling under Pashet's body, hear Caesar's gasp as he turns his head and searches for the source of the gunshot. He grits his teeth. Is he angry at having had his kill taken from him, or shocked as he realises that just a few moments ago, he would have been on the receiving end of that bullet?

The tower begins to glow. Brighter and brighter the light burns, until the whole structure is swallowed by it. Then just as quickly, it fades.

I peer down the scope one last time. Pashet's body is gone.

I stand, throw the rifle to the ground, and place my bare hand against my forehead. The skin feels clammy, like I've caught a fever.

A harsh sound, like metal scraping against dry wood, makes me turn. Only then do I realise that it's the sound of laughter. Your fingers clutch your shirt, the white cloth dyed a shade of red even brighter than your cloak, but apart from that, you show no outward signs that you're in pain.

I was half-expecting you to be dead by now, or at least most of the way there. But you still have enough energy to laugh. I don't know whether to admire or pity you.

Either way, it won't last for long.

Bending down, I slip one of the handguns from your belt and check the magazine. It's loaded. I straighten up and point it at your head. Your eyes roll lazily towards the barrel, challenging me to pull the trigger.

Guns are a mercy. They can end a life with a flick of the finger. Pashet didn't even know what hit her. Depsite our being from enemy famiglie, I have no personal ill will towards you, no reason to make you suffer a drawn-out death. Shooting you in the head would be a kindness.

So why do I hesitate?

“Just do it,” you whisper. “I've had enough of this world, anyway.”

A sudden gust of wind crests the hilltop. It's not enough to blow my hat away this time, though I place a hand on it anyway. The smallest hint of a smile graces your lips, as if you, too, are remembering that day.

When did this world become such a detestable place? At what point did the colours drain away, turning us into mechanical beings who would kill one another with no remorse?

The handgun drops to the grass with a muted _thud_.

There's no changing your fate. After all, we're just bags of meat and bones now, as breakable as any normal human. But if nothing else, I can let you decide how you spend your final moments, whether that means putting the gun to your own head or bleeding out on this hillside. Consider it my singular gift to you.

I'm already several steps down the hill when I hear your voice one final time. It's so quiet it may as well have been my imagination.

“Thank you. This... was always my favourite view.”

I pause a moment, fighting the urge to turn back. Have to force myself to keep walking towards the town.

Funny. After all this time, I'm beginning to understand why she likes you.

*

The smell of toast and syrup greets me long before I open the kitchen door.

“Mr Kyrie!” Fuka is sat opposite Axel at the table, her smile as wide and contagious as ever.

“And where have _you_ been?” Caramia asks, turning from the stove. His hair is pushed back off his face, sleeves rolled up, just like any other morning.

“Just out for a stroll, my dear idiot lion.” While I keep my voice as light as possible, there's no mistaking the slight pursing of Caramia's lips, the way his eyes linger on me just a moment too long.

I may tease him over his dim-wittedness sometimes, but he's not stupid.

Fuka moves her chair over slightly, giving me enough room to take the place beside her. Axel, stony-faced as ever in my presence, is peeling half an orange on the other side of the table. I snatch the plate from under his hands, ignoring his protests.

Fuka breathes in sharply. “That's mine.”

“Oh, my apologies.” I flash her a deliberate smile before gathering up all the pieces and shoving them into my mouth.

I may be a serial liar by nature, but I've always meant it when I say I adore her pained expression. Truly, it is the loveliest sight in the world.

After all, in this moment, we're all liars. This whole situation is one big charade. We have to keep calm for Fuka's sake, have to pretend this is just a normal famiglia breakfast, as if the world isn't burning to ashes outside.

Caramia can give me all the stern looks he wants. What's done is done, and he didn't even have to lift a finger.

I let my hand wander across the table to rest on top of Fuka's. She looks down in surprise, then curls her fingers slightly, entwining them with mine. I wonder how she'd react if she knew that the hand beneath the glove is stained with blood.

“Make me some food, Caramia,” I tell him.

“Maybe if you hadn't been out walking, you wouldn't have missed breakfast,” he snaps, but places a plate in front of me anyway. “Luckily, we have leftovers.”

“Feeding me scraps, now, are you?” I look down at the two slices of cold toast stacked on my plate. As usual, Caramia's left them under the grill for too long. I lean back in my chair and point at the jam jars lined up on the wooden wall rack. “Pass me the raspberry and a knife.”

“Here you go, _Your Highness_.” Caramia places both items in front of me.

It's only as I'm lifting the first piece of toast that I notice a light in the corner of my eye. Turning my head slightly, I look out of the window.

The tower is burning with light again.

“Mr Kyrie, are you okay?”

Fuka's voice jolts me out of my trance. I look down at the toast, slathered with thick, red jam.

“I'm fine,” I say. My head feels cold again, but I manage to force a smile. Suddenly, the jam smells sickly-sweet, the toast wet and heavy in my hands. I place it down on the plate.

I'm not hungry anymore.


End file.
